Clara kept reaching for the photograph without realizing it.
Every time she passed the counter, every time she rearranged a bouquet, every time the door chimed with a new customer—her fingers drifted toward the picture tucked safely beneath the register.
She didn’t pull it out.
She didn’t need to.
Just knowing it was there—knowing *he* had taken it—was enough to make her pulse shift.
Marla noticed within an hour.
“Oh, you’re hopeless,” she declared, watching Clara pause a beat too long over a stem of ranunculus.
Clara blinked. “I’m working.”
“You’re floating.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are. You’re basically a balloon tied to the counter at this point.”
Clara tried to glare, but failed spectacularly.
Before Marla could tease her further, a middle-aged woman entered, asking for an anniversary arrangement. Clara shifted smoothly into work mode, her hands steady even if her heart wasn’t. Marla handled the register, shooting her a smug grin every few minutes.
By noon, the shop settled into a quiet rhythm again.
That was when Clara checked her phone.
No messages.
She told herself she wasn’t disappointed.
She told herself she didn’t expect anything.
But her breath still caught when the doorbell chimed.
Her head snapped up—
Only to see a delivery courier carrying a small white box tied with navy ribbon.
“Delivery for Clara Wren,” he said.
Marla let out a noise that could only be described as a strangled squeal.
Clara’s hands shook slightly as she signed for it.
After the courier left, Marla practically vibrated.
“OPEN. IT. NOW.”
Clara opened it carefully.
Inside was a small glass bottle containing a single pressed white tulip petal—delicate, perfectly preserved. Alongside it lay a folded card.
Her breath caught.
She opened the card.
*I wasn’t done giving you flowers.
— E*
Clara bit her lip, heat blooming across her cheeks.
Marla shrieked, “OH MY GOD HE’S A POET.”
Before Clara could form a coherent sentence, the bell chimed *again*.
Both women froze.
He stood in the doorway.
Elias.
Not dressed for meetings today—no suit jacket, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened just enough to make him look disarmed and disarming at the same time.
But it was his eyes that caught her breath.
Soft. Intentional. Already fixed on her.
“Hi,” he said quietly.
Marla whispered, “I need to leave,” and vanished so fast the bell didn’t even have time to chime again.
Clara swallowed, fingers still on the card. “You… sent a courier.”
He nodded once. “I wanted it to get to you sooner.”
She inhaled slowly, warmth pooling somewhere near her ribs. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” he said, stepping closer, “but I still wanted to.”
Her pulse stumbled.
He noticed.
His gaze dropped briefly to her hands. “Did you like it?”
Clara looked down at the box again. “I… did.”
Something eased in his shoulders.
“I’m glad,” he said, softer.
They stood there for a moment, the distance between them small but charged.
Outside, the city moved.
Inside the shop, the air shifted.
And Clara had the distinct, dizzying feeling—
that whatever this was,
whatever they were stepping into,
was no longer small.
“Walk with me,” Elias said.
It wasn’t a command.
It wasn’t even a request.
It felt like an invitation—soft, uncertain, but real.
Clara hesitated only a moment before nodding.
She grabbed her coat from the back, and together they stepped out into the late afternoon light. The cold brushed their cheeks, but the warmth from just being near him softened the edge of the air.
They didn’t speak at first.
Their steps fell into rhythm naturally, like their bodies had already decided the pace long before their minds caught up. Clara kept her hands tucked into her pockets; Elias kept his at his sides, fingers flexing once—like he was fighting the urge to reach for something he wasn’t ready to ask for.
The city moved around them, but everything felt muted.
Focused.
Like a frame drawn around the two of them.
“How was your meeting?” Clara finally asked.
He exhaled, a faint fog escaping into the air. “Less exhausting than it could have been.”
“That’s good.”
“It was… easier to focus today.”
She smiled at that. “Really?”
“Yes.” He paused, then added quietly, “You helped.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks again. “Me?”
“You sent a message this morning.”
“It was just—”
“It wasn’t ‘just’ anything.”
Clara bit her lip, heart beating too close to her ribs.
They turned a corner, heading toward the marina. The sky overhead shifted into shades of slate and lavender, the water below rippling with winter wind. She shivered slightly.
Elias noticed instantly.
Without a word, he unwrapped the scarf from around his own neck and draped it over hers.
Clara blinked. “Elias—”
“You’re cold.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’re cold,” he repeated, calm but certain.
She touched the scarf lightly. It was warm from him, carrying a faint cedar scent. Something tightened in her chest.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He nodded once, avoiding her eyes—not out of discomfort, but something more vulnerable than that.
They reached the water’s edge where the world grew quieter, the only sound the tapping of ropes against wooden posts and the soft rocking of boats.
Clara stopped, leaning slightly on the railing. “You didn’t have to come to the shop today.”
“I know.”
“But you did.”
He stood beside her, close enough that their arms almost touched.
“I wanted to,” he said.
She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Elias… this is moving fast.”
“Yes.”
She looked up at him. “And you’re not usually someone who moves fast.”
“No.”
“So why—”
“Because,” he said quietly, “when I walked away last night, everything felt… wrong.”
Clara blinked.
“I kept thinking about the moment you closed your door. And I realized I didn’t want the night to end like that.” He looked at her then, fully, honestly. “I didn’t want distance.”
Her throat tightened.
“And today,” he added, “I didn’t want space.”
Clara swallowed, heart shaking.
“Do you?” he asked softly. “Want space?”
She shook her head before she even realized she was moving. “No.”
He exhaled—a slow, relieved breath that seemed to settle all the tension in his shoulders.
The wind brushed past them, carrying the scent of cold saltwater.
And then—
For the first time,
Elias reached out.
Not for her hand,
not for her waist,
but gently—
his fingers touched her sleeve.
A question, not an answer.
A beginning, not a claim.
Clara turned her hand slowly.
Her fingers slid beneath his.
Not holding—
but meeting.
And the quiet between them bloomed.
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